


Dead Is Better (Schlackity)

by MollyDaRat



Category: Ranboo - Fandom, jschlatt - Fandom, mcyt, quackity - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood and Gore, Gun Violence, Manipulation, Necromancy, Not a ship fic, Schlackity, Thriller, mcyt - Freeform, suicidal contemplation, use of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyDaRat/pseuds/MollyDaRat
Summary: Thunder rolled over the earth like a wave of powerful force, shaking the catacombs underneath the church. The walls creaked and cracked, revealing the moonlight of to the evil and abhorrent horror that was happening below the holy earth. The powerful lightning storm would continue for this entire night of hell on the SMP.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Dead Is Better (Schlackity)

Chains clattered against the cold stone wall as an amalgamation of old body parts shuddered under a woven blue tarp. Pure white light shone through cracks in the stone of the small, damp room, leaving the figures in the room covered in stark shadows. The shift of a blade could be heard as the “doctor” approached his prized creation. Something nobody had yet to achieve, bringing a long lost friend back to life. With the coldness and convulsions pulsing through the newly rearranged muscles of Schlatt’s body, a hotness grew in his heart. His blood had finally begun to pump throughout his entire body, causing a need for air. A large gasp escaped the experiment as he took in a fresh breath. The air was moist, his hands were dirty, and his eyes felt like they had been glued shut. A feeling of panic overcame the man as he felt the dampened tarp laying heavily upon his skin.

“Get it off,” his hoarse voice rang out into the piercing silence.

Quackity briskly walked over to the tarp, ripping it off of the man under it. He knelt down, watching as Schlatt sputtered, twitched, and tried to open his eyes. A smug grin made it onto his face as he watched his experiment writhe with life. No totem had been needed to do this, just one sick son of a bitch and a couple boxes of “donated” blood. He reached out, peeling Schlatt’s eyelids back to help him see. The slit of his pupil dilated in the dim light, fixating on Quackity. A clear look of confusion was splayed across his face, only to be replaced with fear as Quackity raised a blade up. The silver gleamed, reflecting off of his retina, only to reveal the lack of emotion behind his eyes. Schlatt had been brought back in a cloud of hope in life, only to wake in fear of his old friend. In one jutting motion, Quackity had buried the knife in the ground next to Schlatt.

“What the fuck!” The man cried, trying to scoot away from his friend.

Quackity reached out, grabbing Schlatt by a horn, only to hoist him up face-to-face. “So you can feel fear, yes?”

“Why would you give a fuck about what I can feel? What the hell is going on?”

“Answer the question, or else.”

“Fucking flatty patty running the ranks now, eh? I knew you’d do some sort of lame shit like this.”

The silence that filled the room after Schlatt’s bitchy rebuttal was tense enough to be sliced with a sword. Quackity jerked Schlatt by the horn, feeling the glue and stitches come loose under the bone. A cry of pain rang through the halls of the neighboring room, but no one had been there to hear. It was only Quackity who heard the cries of his dearest friend, someone he cared about enough to bring back to life. Yet the screams were like soft whispers to his ears as he let go of the horn, causing Schlatt to crumple in agony. A joyful agony of life turning bitter once more for the con man, the kind of agony that makes a person’s stomach drop and their heart race. Twisting like a knife, the agony that Quackity wanted to see.

“You can feel, you can hear, and you can process pain. I think I did a good job in putting you back together. Muy bueno, right?” Quackity let out a laugh at his own joke, only to stifle it out moments later.

Schlatt stared Quackity in the eyes with a wild grin on his face. The man spiraled into an uncontrollable shrieking laughter as his body began to regain more feeling. In a matter of grueling moments, he was up on his feet, towering over the blood-stained bastard who had brought him back to feeling agony. Though, on the inside, Schlatt knew Quackity was going to use him as a form of propaganda. Perhaps the man needed a reminder of his place next to Schlatt, or maybe he needed a refresher of what Schlatt never wanted. He never wanted to hurt him.

“Get your ass up, you horrible motherfucker. Look at you, kneeling before your own work, have some respect.” Schlatt spat out, adjusting his tie subtly.

Quackity slowly stood, facing his creation, his friend. For once he saw that Schlatt looked beautiful, like he had never died in the first place. The moonlight lit his skin up enough to hide the grey undertones and dark black veins hiding beneath the layers of pale flesh. His hair had been preserved, though it was dirty and messed up enough to give the illusion of Schlatt having a bad hair day, and the light in his eyes gave an eerie contrast of his dead features. As he was lost to the silence and subtle admiration of his creation, he failed to notice Schlatt reaching for his back pocket. In the blink of an eye, a subtle cock of a hammer, and a flash of shadows; Quackity was being held at gunpoint.

“You know, you’re a fucking bastard for bringing me back,” Schlatt said, shakily holding the glock between the other man’s eyes. One shot, and he would be gone.

A rigid breath escaped Schlatt as he rested his finger on the trigger. His yellow eyes met Quackity’s soft brown eyes, tearing a hole in the other man’s soul. Pure anger, hatred, and malice was boiling over, paining Schlatt to the point of his chest tightening. It hurt so good, so good in fact, that he was tempted to turn the gun on himself. An image of him splattering his own brains across what was Quakity’s work station made the man feel genuine disturbance and envy. All he wanted to be was a memory, because all he was to his closest friend was a pawn in a sick game of chess. He wasn’t going to play any games with his last life, especially if he didn’t want it.

“Give me one reason, one reason why I shouldn’t blow your fucking brains out.” Schlatt demanded.

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” Quackity was fumbling with his words, feeling the raw fear of death embrace him.

“Sorry for what? For bringing me back?”

“No, for everything that happened before. I tricked you, I lied to you. I wasn’t your friend. When you died though, I felt guilty, like...like I owed you.”

His finger left the trigger of the gun, resting against the handle.

“You didn’t owe me this, you dirty motherfucker. I was supposed to be dead, and gone. A memory for you to loath, so fuck you Quackity! Fuck you and everything you’ve ever done for me!” He cried out, lashing the gun out of the other’s sight.

Schlatt turned it on himself.

“Wait! Schlatt, let me talk,” Quackity begged, feeling hot tears well up and fall onto his cold cheeks.

“Go on.”

The reply was cold, hesitant even.

“I felt grief, not for a friend. I never wanted to feel grief for you. I felt grief for a fucking lowlife who I somehow came to terms with caring about. I watched you drink your life away, and I watched as you collapsed. The biggest regret of everything I did, was never saying goodbye.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

Sure, it didn’t. Quackity knew he was just spewing emotional garbage to try and figure out how he had even felt. There was no right word to place how he had felt about the downfall of Schaltt, and no right action in this situation that would help.

“I could make it make sense, just for you.” a new feeling of uncertainty settled between them in the room.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit, just let me die.”

“I want to keep you alive, this is your last life.”

“Touché, but I never wanted another life to begin with.”

His finger rested on the trigger once again, beginning to pull back on it.

Without hesitation, Quackity lunged forward, trying to grab the gun. A shot rang out in the night, finally piercing the heavy atmosphere with a sharp scream and the clang of metal. Blood pooled below the two men as one held the other up. The gun rested on the grime-ridden floor, still smoking from the nozzle. A blood stained apron fell to the floor with it as Schlatt ripped it off of the other’s bloodied torso. He quickly lowered the other man to the floor, then he covered the wound with his filthy hands. The squelching, spurting, and smell of the blood was enough to make Schlatt retch. Quackity had been shot in the chest by accident, by his own miscalculation. Schlatt kept pressure on the other man’s wound, being sure to monitor his breathing. He looked like he was stabilizing, which eased Schlatt’s emotions a little.

“You’re gonna be fine.” He tried to assure his friend.

“Liar,” Quackity said with a soft laugh.

“It’s not that bad, right?”

Quackity didn’t reply immediately, he just stared at the ceiling until he began to cough up his own blood. “Good…” He choked and sputtered as he tried to get the word out. “Goodbye.”

  
Schlatt collapsed on his friend’s body, feeling how cold it actually was. Under him laid the corpse of the only thing he cared about. The only thing, person, reason he would ever want to live his last life. The droning sobs and cries of Schlatt rang through the building, reaching a pair of pricked ears above. The faint pitter patter of rain on the surface could be heard in the catacombs below the church, almost drowning out the sorrow ringing through the walls. Schlatt continued to mourn his friend, subconsciously grabbing the gun off of the ground. He cocked the hammer again, and continued to sob as he stuck the barrel in his mouth.

Suddenly, he felt two eyes on him. Actually, they were trained on the gun in his mouth. A soft hand rested on his shoulder, and the gun suddenly disappeared. It was now in the hands of the new entity who stood above Schlatt. Before he could ask who it was, the gun was pointed right back at him. A low, annoying screeching filled the man’s ears as he looked the entity in the eyes. Red and green, how odd.

“You killed him.” The accusation was solid, but of course, Schlatt had an explanation.

“And who might you be? You look like some lanky smart ass who would work for those fuckers in the outskirts.”

“I’m Ranboo, and I know exactly who you are. They’ve told me all about you.”

“Who exactly told you about me? And why?”

“Well...Wait, I remember you. I remember hearing about you. Your name, I know your name.”

“Well, kid, I’m gonna need you to forget about me. Just fucking shoot me and forget about me. I was just going to sit here crying all night with a gun in my mouth, like the fucking coward I am. So do it, fucking shoot me.”

“You seem like a dirtbag, and I’m assuming you killed Quackity. So I guess I can grant your wish.” Ranboo concluded, pointing the gun at Schlatt’s temple.

Schlatt felt blood rushing through him as his mind urged him to do something. “What are you?” he asked out of the blue.

“Something like an enderman, now stay still.” Ranboo didn’t want to miss, especially when he was dealing with killing a person for the first time.

Schlatt suddenly lurched, quickly wrapping his arms around the enderman’s legs. He knocked him over, then sprang up, trying to find a last resort. A cup of water on Quackity’s workbench caught his eye, so he grabbed it, tossing it at Ranboo. Before the water could even hit him, he had teleported out of the room, up onto the surface. Schlatt heard very distinct panicked screams from above, swiftly leading him to the assumption that the enderman had stranded himself out in the rain. Poor kid.

Once he had gained himself and gathered his thoughts, Schlatt walked over to Quackity’s corpse. The pool of blood had begun to discolor, turning a dark shade of brown against the grey brick floor. Schlatt looked down at his friend’s lifeless face, feeling sadness and anger overwhelm him. He turned and walked over to the workbench, grabbing a bottle of cheap booze. He tilted the bottle up, bitterly chugging down what he could. He didn’t care what it was, as long as it would numb him. After a motionless hour, he was drunk, but not drunk enough to repress his anger.

“Why’d you have to fucking die? Fucking useless piece of shit side man. You were always so close to me, and now you fucking kill yourself? Un-fucking-believable!” Schlatt shouted at the unmoving body.

Quackity didn’t seem to be swayed by his harsh words.

“No reply? I’ll fucking teach you. Nobody brings me back to life just to call me a motherfucker then die on me! Fuck you, cunt.”

With a swift kick, Schlatt knocked Quackity’s beanie off. He raised the heel of his scuffed leather boots, smashing it down onto the corpse’s face. The man spat before he continued to attack the dead man, kicking and even swinging at the limp, broken body like it was a punching bag. He embraced the senseless violence of grief until he couldn’t recognize his friend’s face anymore. A moment of silence echoed through the room before Schlatt grabbed his gun. A beating hadn't been enough to satisfy his anger. Four shots were fired into the body until only one bullet was left in the chamber.

  
“I fucking loved you like a brother! I wish you weren’t such a fuck up!” He cried, pain lacing his voice as it began to give out.

The last round behind the hammer was as tempting as a piece of candy to a kid, but Schlatt knew he couldn't do it. Eventually, he laid the gun in Quackity’s hand. Nobody would believe this was a suicide, but Schlatt didn’t care. The man simply walked out of the room, drunken and numb, only remembering to lock the door behind him. He wandered the catacombs for a bit before he found a way out. Crawling onto the surface, he gasped as he finally breathed fresh air. His lungs were filled with stinging mucus from all of the screaming and sobbing, but the mist in the air eased him a bit. He simply turned over on his back, letting the rain wash Quackity’s remaining blood off of his hands, suit, and shoes. As he laid in the rain, he tried to think of his friend’s face. Nothing in his memory came up, other than a bloodied, black hole in the silhouette of what remained of a skull. Something so morbid brought the drunken man comfort and joy.

“Quackity would still be alive if I were dead, so maybe I was right. Me being dead was better.” Rain wasn’t the only thing flowing from his eyes as he slowly closed them, bathing in the cool water and warm tears. “Why did I leave the gun?” he muttered to the raindrops, holding back a sob. A realization hit the man, causing a small bittersweet smile to rest on his cold lips. “He doesn’t have to deal with me or my loving words anymore. Maybe him being dead is better. Now that I’m alive again, I’ve made the wonderful realization that...Dead is better.”


End file.
